


Forgive Me My Weakness (but i don't know why )

by Fox (Spacefoxen)



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Clint Barton, Bucky's having setbacks, Clint Needs a Hug, Clint has no idea what he's doing, Cuddling, Deaf Clint Barton, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Except that he does, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Lots of Cuddling, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, bucky threatens to make boot-soup, just like these damn tags, just the boys confronting FEELINGS, seriously there is no plot here, this keeps running away from me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-12 03:27:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5650870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spacefoxen/pseuds/Fox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bucky begins to have set backs in his recovery, he's sent to Clint’s  farmhouse in order to heal in peace and quiet.</p><p>Clint just can't figure out why he's been entrusted with the care of the ex-assassin when he can’t even get his own shit together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AroAceArrowAce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AroAceArrowAce/gifts).



> My Winterhawk exchange fic! Unfortunately, due to having 3 essays to write for my finals and then working retail for the holidays, I wasn't able to finish this in time. It also doesn't help that it totally ran away from me! The second and final part should be done within the week.
> 
> Huge thanks to Phou-ka for all her beta work. This piece would be trash without her.
> 
> This is my first time writing Clint or Bucky so be gentle!

Clint crossed his arms as he gazed out his front window, watching as yet another log was split with ease under the blade wielded by a stocky figure. As Clint watched, he noticed the muscles in Bucky’s back and arms were tense in a way completely unnecessary for the task. Said muscles quivered slightly as Bucky moved to place another log in position, and the man’s grip on the axe was much too tight. Clint twitched as yet another defenseless log met it’s untimely end. At least he’d be stocked up on firewood for the next forever.

Clint shifted uncomfortably, still unsure how it was decided that  _ he _ was best suited for watching over the Winter Soldier. Probably because they didn’t have any other choice.

Natasha was still too wary and untrustful to be much help. Tony, too, was still having a hard time dealing with Bucky in the tower--he couldn’t get over the fear of the possibility of the Soldier’s conditioning returning. Didn’t matter the reasoning, though; Tony would be horrible at helping Bucky work through anything. Then there was Steve. Steve was part of the problem, always hovering and expecting too much from Bucky, and therefore would be no help at all.

Bruce was currently MIA, and besides, his little green problem would not handle a potential PTSD relapse well. Thor was off planet doing who knew what. Sam, who arguably should have been the logical choice, was busy tying things up in DC and packing for his move to the Tower.  Any of the new team members were just that--new. Too new to be able to deal with a previously brainwashed ex-assassin. 

Which left Clint.

“Aww, team, no…” Clint groaned, dragging one hand down his face. In what universe, ever, could he be seen as the most suitable for this kind of job? He hadn’t even been able to process his own issues, let alone help someone else with theirs! He was bound to fuck this up somehow.

Sighing, Clint figured it was probably time to drag Bucky inside; the moment they had arrived, Bucky had just dropped his bag on the couch and immediately went out back to hack at the wood. 

Clint got it. The wood was a great way to get rid of pent up frustrations and energies. But Bucky had been out there for a while and the dark was creeping in, temperature falling.

Not intending to go out where he was likely to catch frostbite, Clint shuffled to the front door and opened it to just the screen.

“Hey! Bucky! Get in here, it’s freezing!” Clint yelled. He frowned as Bucky just continued to chop the wood, face creased in concentration. 

Muttering a string of insults and curses to himself, directed at the errant brunet, Clint shoved his feet into his work boots and threw on a coat. As he zipped up, Clint hollered, “I know you can hear me out there! Don’t act like you can’t!” He shoved his hat onto his head and muttered, “Annoying super-soldiers.” The screen door slammed shut behind him as he made his way over to where the pile of firewood had grown in triplicate since they had arrived at the farm earlier that afternoon. 

Bucky still didn’t look up. Clint huffed and hunched his shoulders up to his ears, which, despite the hat, were already feeling the chill in the air. He then crossed his arms to conserve what little body heat he still had.

“Come on, Bucky. I've got enough wood now to last me ten winters.” Clint noticed that at the sound of his nickname, Bucky’s muscles tensed and on his down-swing, completely missed the small log he was swinging for. Instead, the axe tore through the much larger stump the log was balancing atop. The force of Bucky’s swing embedded the axe inches deep into the ground and would have required him to give a serious tug to get it jarred loose. 

Instead, Bucky let the handle go, chest heaving. His fists were clenched tightly as his sides, his left arm whirring quietly at the tension. 

As Clint took in the scene before him, his eyes snagged on a bright splash of red against the white snow. A large drop hit the ground even as he watched, and his eyes traveled upward to the drop’s origins. It was then that his sharp eyes noticed the blood dripping down the other man's flesh arm.

“Wha-?” Clint blinked. “What the hell have you done to your hand?!” Heedless of the fact that the ex-assassin had an axe within easy grasp, Clint ran over and grabbed for the man's bloody hand.

Bucky went deathly still while Clint turned his hand palm up; Clint hardly noticed. Instead, he focused on the spectacular array of blood blisters splitting across the pale skin. The whole palm was a torn up mess.

Clint frowned, concern growing even as Bucky tried to pull away.

“It’s nothing…”

Clint held on tighter. “It’s not nothing. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” Clint turned back toward the farmhouse, fully intending to drag Bucky inside if he had to, momentarily forgetting just who he was dealing with.

“Barton…” Bucky’s voice was pitched low in warning as he pulled back again on Clint’s hold. Clint stumbled slightly, and turned to look at Bucky, still determinedly moving toward the house.

“Bucky--” Another  flinch at the sound of his old nickname, “just...come inside so I can clean this up and then you can do whatever the hell you want.” 

Bucky stared at Clint, long enough to make Clint want to fidget. Eventually, he lowered his eyes.

“Fine.”

Clint gave a mental sigh of relief and headed back in towards the house, Bucky in tow.

This time, Bucky didn’t resist.

* * *

 

Clint led Bucky into the house, forgoing taking off his boots but shucking off his coat and dropping it to land in a haphazard pile on the floor. He didn’t pause to allow Bucky to do the same, instead pulled him further inside and down the hall to a miniscule half-bathroom. There was just enough room for one person to go about their business, but it was entirely too small for comfort with two full grown men standing in it. Just getting through the door, Clint managed to elbow Bucky in the side, in addition to stepping on his foot. Bucky simply stood passively, his body vibrating in the tight space.

“Sit,” Clint ordered gruffly, giving Bucky a slight push at the toilet. Bucky complied quietly, hands hanging casually between his knees as he sat down on the toilet lid. Clint bent to rummage through the cabinet under the sink, eventually pulling out a dark green tackle box with a red cross emblazoned on the front.

One of Bucky’s eyebrows rose at the size of the first aid kit. 

Clint ignored the expression as he opened the box and began to shuffle through the haphazardly organized supplies, eventually pulling out a roll of bandaging, a square of gauze in sterile packaging, a handful of wipes, and a small tube of antibacterial ointment.

Placing the items on the counter next to the kit, Clint turned and contemplated the man before him. Bucky’s hair was wet from the falling snow, and his zip hoodie was equally as soaked. Clint sighed.

“Get your jacket off. There’s no sense in wrapping up your hand with that still on; the bandages will just get munged when you take the jacket off later. Just, be careful of your hand.”

Bucky gave his eyes a roll, but did as he was told. He was left in soggy jeans, a worn red henley, and his combat boots. 

Clint gathered up his supplies and sat cross-legged on the floor in front of Bucky. Gently, he grasped Bucky’s flesh hand in one of his and began to clean the blood off with one of the wipes. Bucky didn’t flinch, not even when Clint had to pass the wipe directly over one of the blisters.

Clint began to mutter to himself as he cleaned, uncaring as to whether Bucky heard him or not. 

“You couldn’t have even tried to be careful, could you? Nooo you had to just go hacking away at a forest of trees. If you weren’t so stubborn, like everyone else I know, this wouldn’t have happened! God, you don’t even care that you got hurt do you? Just because you--” Clint stopped long enough to wave his hands vaguely at the already pinkening wounds, “doesn’t mean you can just not care…” Clint continued to rant quietly, uncaring that he was being an utter hypocrite when it came to self care.

Clint’s grumbling went silent as he began to focus on caring for Bucky’s wounds now that the hand was clean. The damage was extensive. Blisters stood out starkly on the pad of skin just below Bucky’s long fingers, a few already beginning to burst. The second joint on both his ring and pointer fingers also sported blisters. The soft webbing between the thumb and first finger was torn apart and looked awfully painful.

Carefully, Clint squoze out some of the antibacterial gel onto Bucky’s palm, feeling it was safer to overdo it and have some extra to squish in with the gauze that it was to not have enough. Setting the tube aside, Clint took Bucky’s hand into his and began to gently rub the gel into the blisters.

Clint lost himself to the work. Eventually he just sat at Bucky’s feet, his hands clasped around Bucky’s injured one. Clint contemplated the strong, though damaged, hands before him, noting the soft calluses formed by the extensive use of both guns and knives. Clint was familiar with those kinds of calluses, as both he and Natasha had their own fair share.

He took in the detail’s of Bucky’s hand; the long graceful extent of his fingers, the chipped and dirty nails bitten down to the quick, the slight crookedness to his ring finger from a break that didn’t heal correctly. His fingers stroked absentmindedly at the back of Bucky’s hand, the pads of his fingers taking in the raised lines of tendon and vein.

It wasn’t until Bucky shifted slightly that Clint realized what he was doing. 

Letting out an awkward cough, Clint reached for the pack of sterile gauze and opened it carefully with his teeth. He placed them carefully in a thick line across the pad of Bucky’s palm, pressing ever so slightly into the gel to help the pads stay. Satisfied with the placement, Clint gently wrapped the bandage, making sure to pull just tight enough to keep the strip in place. 

Long after the job was finished, both men sat in silence, staring down at Bucky's flesh hand cradled in the both of Clint's. 

Breaking the quiet, Bucky spoke, voice gruff. “Sorry for not...Sorry for being stubborn and not coming in when you called.” 

When Clint looked up to see Bucky’s expression, the other man’s eyebrows were pulled together, an air of slight confusion about him.

“Nah, bro, it’s fine. We all have our faults.” Clint quickly stood up, rubbing his hands on his thighs. Apologies always made him feel so awkward, even when they weren’t his own. “Look, let me show you around the place and then I’ll get food goin’, yeah?”

Bucky just shrugged, then nodded. He stood up from his seat and cradled his now bandaged hand in his metal one, grey eyes on Clint as Clint made his way out of the bathroom.

Clint gave himself a mental shake, trying to dispelled the overprotective mood he found himself in. Putting a smile on his face, he turned to face Bucky, arms raised to indicate the small house. 

“So! It's not much, but it's mine and it's where I go to decompress after difficult  missions.” Clint dropped both arms, then brought one back up to rub at the back of his neck. “Umm, it's a loft style home, so the top floor is the master suite. Everything else is down here.”

While Bucky gazed around, taking in the stairs leading up and the wooden railing guarding the edge of the top floor, Clint turned back around and took a shaky breath in. He could not for the life of him figure out why he was feeling so out of wack today. Mind racing, he realized that this was the first time since the Battle of New York that he had anyone other than Natasha over.

His first guest in his safe house in over three years was a recovering brainwashed  ex-assassin. 

Clint wanted to laugh hysterically at the thought, but instead he swallowed the lump in his throat and jumped back into the tour as though nothing was wrong. 

“Sitting room is obviously right here. No cable, sorry; reception sucks. But feel free to dig through my DVD collection.” By this point, Clint was just talking to keep the silence at bay. “Kitchen is over there. Should be stocked with the basics. Guest room and bathroom are down that hall…oh!” Clint snapped his fingers. “Extra blankets are in the linen closet if you need them. The house can be drafty and the heating is almost as bad as the cable would be if I had it!” Clint looked at Bucky, who was looking at the wide windows in the front room with a small frown. “So, I guess I'll get some food started. Make yourself at home.”

With that, Clint darted for the kitchen, hoping Bucky would go about his own business.

Clint wasn't kidding when he said the kitchen was stocked with the basics; he was lucky enough to have that, really. Clint opened his cupboards, hoped for the best, and started pulling ingredients out. It looked like they’d be having pasta.

Hopefully.

* * *

 

“Chow time!” Clint yelled as he dished up some plates of his poor (second) attempt at pasta. He was just setting the plates down at the table when Bucky shuffled in cocooned in a blanket.

Bucky must have been napping, as his hair was mussed and the side of his face had crease marks on it from where it had been pressed against the pillow. He yawned widely, reminding Clint of a cat.

_ Aww, cute,  _ Clint thought absentmindedly as he sat down. He nearly dropped his fork when he processed that thought. Did he really just think of the Winter Soldier as  _ cute _ ? 

He was so screwed.

Trying to shove the thought aside, Clint took a bite of the pasta and immediately grimaced. The sauce was scorched and the noodles were overcooked in some areas and undercooked in others. Overall, it was nasty, but it wasn’t the worst thing he had ever cooked. Or eaten. He took another bite.

As he did, Bucky was taking his own first bite. He hadn’t chewed more than twice before he stopped, staring at his bowl, mouth still full. Clint soldiered on, eyes downcast. It wasn’t that bad was it? 

Apparently it was. As Bucky finally swallowed his one mouthful, he stood up and proceeded to confiscate both his bowl and Clint’s. He moved over to the trash can with purpose, dumping both helpings of food into the garbage before carefully placing the bowls in the sink. He then did the same to what was left in the pot and pan.

Through it all, Clint just sat in his chair and kind of stared, not quite knowing how to deal with the situation. Protesting would get him nowhere and he knew it; the food  _ was _ awful. 

Bucky turned on the oven then started rummaging through Clint’s barren cupboards, pulling out a miraculously non-moldy bag of bread. From the freezer he pulled out a stick of butter. How he knew to find it in there, Clint had no idea. 

Turning to Clint, Bucky rose an eyebrow and asked, “Buttered toast alright for tonight?” Clint just nodded and crossed his arms on the table, setting his head down on his forearms to watch Bucky prepare the food.

* * *

 

Later that night, Clint and Bucky wound up sitting in the front room. Clint was checking his bows over, along with the fletchings and gadgets on his arrows. He was making sure everything was attached and in working order. Sitting on the other end of the couch, Bucky was quietly cleaning his astonishing assortment of weapons. Between the two of them, they had an arsenal scattered around them and across the rickety coffee table.

The silence that settled in the air wasn’t strained, exactly, but it wasn’t comfortable, either. While Clint and Bucky ran into each other regularly at the Tower and worked together on team missions, they had never been alone together for extended periods of time. Clint wasn’t sure what to do with the atmosphere, so he decided to ignore it and focus on what he was doing. 

Clint glance over at Bucky out of the corner of his eye.

He was slouched in the corner of the couch, one leg bent up on the cushions while the other rested on the floor. In his hand was a long, serrated knife. The blade was wicked sharp and gleamed in the light as Bucky passed a cloth along it, polishing the blade with careful strokes. His eyes were focused on his task, face calm. His hair fell forward across his face, obscuring one eye.

Clint had the strong impulse to brush the hair aside.

_ What the hell is wrong with me tonight? _ Clint thought. This was twice now, in the same day. He couldn’t afford to get attached, especially not to a man like Bucky.

Clint stood, scattering a few arrows onto the floor in his haste to get up. He couldn’t sit down here next to Bucky any longer. He forced himself to seem casual and stretched his arms above his head, his shirt riding up to bare part of his midriff.

“Well, I’m beat! Thanks for the toast earlier.” Clint scratched absently at his hip, eyes downcast to avoid catching Bucky’s eyes. He missed the assessing look Bucky gave him, as well as the appreciative glance Bucky gave his bare hip bones. 

“Night,” Bucky grunted, going back to cleaning his blades.

Clint gave a little nod and moved upstairs to try and get some sleep. He wasn’t sure he’d be too successful, but what the hell, it was worth a try.

* * *

 

Some indeterminate amount of time later, Clint’s eyes shoot open. He didn’t move, just laid in his bed, eyes on the ceiling. There was someone in the room with him, of that he was certain. 

He kept still, mind racing as he tried to remember where he had stashed his bow last night and if he or Natasha had left any knives up here at some point. It took his adrenaline laced brain a second to realize that the person he sensed was likely Bucky. Slowly, he turned over onto his side and eyed the silhouette at the top of his stairs. 

Bucky stood there, highlighted by the soft moonlight coming in from the window by Clint’s bed. His body was stiff and straight, nothing like the relaxed lines from earlier that night.

“Barnes?” Clint shifted a little to sit up so he could reach his hearing aids and slip them on. Bucky didn't so much as twitch.

“Bucky?”

That got an immediate reaction; Bucky’s chest heaved, as though he had forgotten to breathe, and his body was wracked with fine trembles, easy for Clint’s sharp eyes to make out in the pale light.

“I-” Bucky seemed to struggle with getting just that one word out. 

Clint was getting worried now and made to move towards  Bucky to offer whatever assistance he could. However, the moment he began to slide out of the bed, Bucky stiffened again, body shifting. Clint recognized the redistribution of weight as a readying to fight; he stopped moving.

“Easy, Barnes,” Clint mumbled, hands up in a placating gesture. As his eyes adjusted further, he could make out the wild look in Bucky’s expression. “What do you need?”

Bucky swallowed, the small movement an apparent effort. He clenched his fists, eyes slammed tight. “Orders,” he breathed.

Clint blinked, mind racing. Something had triggered residual programming in Bucky. Nothing life threatening, for either him or Bucky but enough to still potentially cause problems. It didn’t take much for Bucky to be a threat to anyone, after all. Clint was beginning to recognize the behavior, having seen it in Natasha after she had finished various deep cover missions. The longer and more involved the mission, the further she slipped into her pre-S.H.I.E.L.D. self.

He hoped Bucky would respond favorably to the same methods he used to help Nat.

Clint sat up straighter in his bed and took a deep breath. Here went nothing.

“Come forward.”

Bucky moved toward Clint until there was only a few feet between them. His body was stiff again, and Clint could still make out the minute tremors that ran up and down his frame. Bucky’s eyes looked straight forward, staring into the middle distance over Clint’s head.

“Physical status report.” 

Bucky’s responses came terse and with a thread of anger. “Compromised.”

“Explain.” Clint made sure to keep his own voice level and never phrased as a question. He had to make sure he was giving orders, not requesting an answer; a question now could easily throw Bucky further into his programming and confusion. 

“Inability to sleep.” Bucky’s brows furrowed slightly. Good. Expressions were good. “Cold. Muscles keep locking up.” At this, the metal fist clenched, causing the rest of his arm to whir in recalibration. 

“More.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. He swallowed roughly and gave his head a small shake; he was trying to get over his inability to articulate. Clint waited him out.

“Unauthorized emotional response.”

It was Clint’s turn to swallow; he was so not equipped to dealing with this. Especially with a man who had essentially been programmed to  _ not _ experience emotions. “Sit down.” Bucky did so, moving to sit on the end of Clint's bed. Clint shuffled up towards his headboard and turned so he was still facing Bucky. “Explain.”

Bucky shut his eyes. “Fear. I feel fear.”

With that admission, Clint felt they were getting somewhere. “List three more things you feel.”

Bucky bit his lip, his gaze dropping to the bed.  “Less cold. Frustrated. Tired.” At this, he brought his hand up to rub at his temple.

“Good. List three things you see.” Clint desperately hoped this grounding technique that he and Natasha used would help pull Bucky completely out of his funk.

Bucky glanced around the loft before returning his eyes to Clint. “A nearly full moon. Clothes scattered on the floor.” The corner of his mouth kicked up in a poor imitation of his usual smirk. “A horrid pair of pajama pants.”

Clint pouted, wanting to defend his Dog Cop themed pjs, but he had to continue with the countdown. “List two things you hear.”

Bucky closed his eyes to concentrate. “Creaking wood. A leaky faucet dripping downstairs -probably the one in the kitchen.”

Clint gave an internal sigh of relief has he watched Bucky  unconsciously relax his muscles, slowly allowing his body to slump forward. “Last one. List one thing you smell.”

Keeping his eyes closed, Bucky took a deep breath, allowing his body to relax further. “Crisp, fresh air. There’s probably a storm blowing in.” With that, Bucky opened his eyes and looked at Clint, eyes full of gratitude. 

“Can you tell me why you came looking for me?” Clint couldn’t figure out why Bucky had been seeking him out, if indeed he had been.

Bucky looked down at his crossed legs. “I…” His eyebrows pulled together in concentration. “I remembered...I remember being cold. We didn’t have a heater at all. It would get so cold we would share a bed so we could spread both blankets over each other. On the especially cold nights we would curl up together to share body heat…”

Quietly, Clint asked, “You and Steve?”

“Yeah.” Bucky looked like he was drifting, this time into old memories. 

Clint cleared his throat, drawing Bucky’s attention back to him. “Would you like to sleep with me tonight?” When Bucky just stared at him, Clint panicked. “I meant sleep! Like share body heat.  In bed! Umm.” Clint flailed around a little, knowing he totally botched this up. As usual. Things had been going so well, too! “Only if you want. To stay warm,” these last lines were mumbled as he drew his legs up to his chest. 

He missed the fond look Bucky shot him, eyes full of mirth and affection. 

Clint went still as he felt the mattress shift. Bucky moved up the bed and alongside Clint. 

“I'd like that.”

Swallowing, feeling as though he had missed something in the conversation, Clint shifted over to make more room for Bucky.

It was awkward for a moment as they shuffled around to get comfortable and draw the blankets up around them. Clint only had a full-sized mattress, as Tasha used the guest room and no one else ever visited. It wasn't really made for two grown men of their size and made for an even tighter fit than the downstairs bathroom had been.

Clint struggled to hold in the manic laughter that wanted to escape. How was this his life?

Eventually, Clint settled down on his back, eyes staring up at the ceiling. Glancing out of the corner of his eye, he took in the sight of Bucky curled on his side, facing Clint. His breath was already evening out as his exhausted body relaxed into Clint's body-warm bed. One hand was under his pillow to help cushion his head, while the other clutched at the sheets between the two of them. 

Clint turned his head towards Bucky, eyes tracing over the sharp plains of the other man's face. Bucky’s hair flopped over his forehead and one eye, the tension lines that had been etched into his face were smoothed over in sleep.

Clint desperately wanted to brush the hair off of Bucky’s face, but didn't dare.

He was so fucked.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint has conflicting feelings and catches a cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That summary sucks, sorry!
> 
> I also apologize for taking so long on this! Classes started last week and then I caught a cold from hell and it made it hard to work on this.
> 
> HOWEVER. Thanks to the AMAZING PhoukasPenmanship (Phou-ka over on tumblr), this chapter is so much more than it could have been. Seriously.

Clint slowly woke up from what had to be the best sleep he's had in a long time. He smiled drowsily as he burrowed deeper into the warmth around him.

He felt cozy. Content. _Safe._ He sighed happily as arms came up and held him closer.

Wait.

Arms.

Clint’s eyes shot open and despite the warm buzz he was feeling, quickly took stock of his current situation.

At some point during the night, he and Bucky had crossed the space between them and then some. Clint found himself starfished out, spread over the top of Bucky with his head tucked into the hollow where the other man’s neck met shoulder. His forehead rubbed up against the bottom of Bucky’s jaw, leaving a slight tingly sensation where stubble and skin came in contact. Their legs were tangled together and wound up in the sheets.

Bucky’s metal arm, warm from the combined body heat, was wrapped around Clint’s waist, drawing him close. His flesh arm rested between Clint’s shoulder blades, fingers casually running through the hair at the base of Clint’s neck.

Clint swallowed and closed his eyes, hoping that Bucky didn’t know he was awake, even though that was unlikely. He felt _nice_ like this. He hadn’t been held this close by someone in a long time and he had nearly forgotten what it was like to feel content.

The hand in Clint’s hair stroked down his back, all the way to the waistband of his pants, where his other arm was resting. Clint fought the urge to arch into the touch but couldn’t help the reaction. His spine curled upwards, his fingers grasping at Bucky’s shoulders. Under his head, Clint felt Bucky’s chest move as he let out a soft huff of laughter. Before Clint could react to the fact that Bucky was, indeed, awake, Bucky’s hand moved back up his spine and dove into his hair.

Clint whined softly. This was so not fair.

Feeling brave, Clint shifted his head and opened his eyes, taking a look at Bucky for the first time that morning.

He really wished he hadn’t.

Bucky’s hair was sleep tousled and spread out all over the pillow they were sharing. Some errant strands covered Bucky’s closed eyes and draped artfully over his nose. What really got to Clint, however, was the soft smile playing at Bucky’s mouth, the carefree expression he wore on his face. The lines of stress and grief were no longer visible, smoothed out by his relaxed state. He looked so much younger like that.

Even as he gazed at the other man, Clint’s soft smile slowly slid from his face. Unable to handle the growing warmth in his chest, Clint bolted upright and out of the bed. As he made his way quickly to the stairs, he glanced behind him, making his second mistake of the morning.

Bucky had simply moved his arms up over his head, stretching his compact body on the bed, eyes still closed. Like Clint’s reaction wasn’t upsetting. Clint closed his eyes briefly, then continued his way down the stairs.

Had he payed a little more attention, he would have noticed the smile on Bucky’s face was strained, and the return of the stress lines around his eyes.

* * *

 

Clint pulled his bow string back smoothly, taking aim at one of the apple trees that was growing at the edge of his yard. In less time than it took to blink, he had his target in sight and the arrow flying. Before the _thud_ of impact reverberated in the air, Clint was already shooting at one of the upright posts in a fence line he hadn’t had a chance to fix.

Shifting his stance to a different angle, Clint glared at the side of his barn and fired six arrows consecutively. They all hit their target perfectly, creating a straight line alongside the barn door.

Automatically reaching back to his quiver for another arrow, Clint nearly growled in frustration when he realized he had already shot his entire kit.

“Fuck,” Clint muttered, slinging the bow over his shoulder as he walked so he could begin retrieving his arrows.

It was then that Clint noticed the pure silence around him. In his awkward dash from his loft, he had forgotten to grab his hearing aides off his bedside table.

Clint stopped and stared straight forward, no longer seeing the barn he had been stomping toward. Did he really want to go back in and confront Bucky? The man he had been casually snuggled into? The same man who didn’t seem to give a rat’s ass that they had woken up tangled up together in a pleasantly warm pile of limbs? No he didn’t.

_Fuck it. I don’t care._

Shaking his head, Clint continued forward to collect his arrows so he could continue shooting his frustrations away. He grit his teeth as he walked, angry at himself for being such a coward and not going into his _own goddamn house_ to get his hearing aides.

It took awhile to gather his arrows, - he had essentially shot in a half circle around the front of the house - but eventually Clint made it back to his preferred vantage spot.

Clint tried to calm down, to take deep breaths and loosen his muscles so he could draw his bow properly, but he ultimately failed at it.

He couldn’t get his mind to focus on anything other than how it had felt to wake up warm and comfortable wrapped around Bucky. What it felt like when Bucky had casually ran his hands through his hair and down his back. To wake up and see Bucky, relaxed, with a content smile gracing his lips.

What it had felt like as he had scrambled up out of bed, turning to see Bucky stretch out under the blankets, eyes closed, not a care in the world.

Clint shut his eyes tight and reached for an arrow, shooting once again at the tree he was aiming for earlier. His aim pulled slightly off target due to the tension in his muscles, causing him to hit his target further to one side than he had wanted.

_Damnit._

Shoving all thoughts of Bucky to the back of his mind, Clint grabbed another arrow and shot for the same target. He hit true that time and he nodded in satisfaction.

His next shot, however, was off..

Clint frowned. _Are you fucking kidding me?_ This wouldn’t do. He settled in for the long haul, setting a goal of at least one hundred perfect shots before he would call it a day.

* * *

 

Some time between shot seventy-nine and eighty-six, he had totally lost count by that point, Clint felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Turning around quickly with bow at full draw, Clint caught sight of Bucky.

A rather irritated looking Bucky, who was charging down the yard, hair whipping in the cold wind. Clint shivered; he did _not_ like the look on Bucky’s face at that moment.

“What did I do now?” Clint called out, realizing how dumb the question was considering he didn’t even have his hearing aides in. Hopefully he could read Bucky’s lips.

Instead of talking however, Bucky stopped about three feet away, chest heaving, eyes dark. He gazed at Clint, eyes flicking over his face as though taking in his appearance. Clint shifted a little, finally remembering to relax his bow.

Bucky darted forward as soon as the bowstring was lax and yanked the weapon from Clint’s grasp. Not even looking, Bucky chucked the bow behind him.

Clint instantly felt all of his anger and frustration come surging back. _No one_ touched his bow, let alone treated it like _that._ Clint lunged at Bucky, forgetting he was attacking _the Winter-Fucking-Soldier,_ and smacked right into Bucky’s muscled chest. Bucky, not expecting the attack, stumbled back. The two overbalanced and tipped right over into the snow.

Clint scrambled to get on top, pent up emotions wanting to be unleashed upon Bucky’s pretty face. Before he could get a hit in, Bucky flipped them and pinned Clint’s wrists to the ground.

Bucky was yelling something, but all Clint heard was bitter silence. Panicked at suddenly finding himself immobile, Clint started to squirm underneath Bucky’s weight. Snow flew through the air as he kicked and lashed out.

“Get offa me!” Clint yelled. His struggles were utterly futile, as Bucky had nearly thirty pounds more muscle than Clint in addition to his cybernetic arm.

Bucky scrambled off and Clint immediately jumped to his feet, spinning to face Bucky head on. He stayed semi crouched, fists clenched and held up defensively. Clint’s chest heaved, body flooded with adrenaline.

Bucky took a slow step back, hands up with his palms facing out, showing he meant no harm. He kept his eyes locked on Clint’s.

Bucky said something, attempting to enunciate the words even, but Clint was too strung out to be able to focus enough to read lips. Bucky slowly began to inch forward, hands still out. Clint simple stood where he was, body trembling. Bucky moved until he was standing directly in front of him. Coming down from his adrenaline high, Clint slowly straightened his posture and loosened his fists.

Bucky moved his hands to rest them on Clint’s shoulders, telegraphing every movement as he did so. Ever so carefully, Bucky pushed at Clint until they were both facing the farmhouse. Bucky then gave Clint a slight nudge between his shoulder blades to get him to start moving to the house.

Clint turned back around frantically, searching for his bow in the snow, but Bucky stopped him from moving anywhere. Gesturing at himself, then in the direction of the bow, Clint gathered that Bucky was trying to tell him that he’d get it and bring it in.

Slowly, Clint nodded and turned back to move back inside. He glanced over his shoulder every now and then, making sure Bucky was following him and that he had done what he said he would do.

“Will you help me gather my arrows?” Clint asked, hoping his voice was at a decent volume.

Bucky nodded as he came abreast Clint, turning to face him directly to mouth, “Later.”

Clint nodded again and the two made their way back into the warmth of the house.

* * *

 

The first thing Clint did when he made it inside was bolt up the stairs to grab his hearing aides. He was _never_ going to leave them out again just because he was in a snit.

As soon as he had the aides settled, Clint began to breath a little easier. He heard Bucky shuffling downstairs, the thunk of boots hitting the floor as they were removed, and a soft sigh.

Clint twitched guiltily, shooting a glance at the clock on his night stand. He had been out much longer than he had initially intended.

Sheepishly, Clint made his way back down stairs, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. Bucky stood in the kitchen, arms crossed and face blank; Clint swallowed, nervously. He didn’t know what that expression meant. It  couldn’t be that Bucky had been worried, could it? What could he have possibly been worried about?

“What's that look for?” Clint asked, not quite sure what he had done wrong this time.

Bucky just sighed, expression finally gaining some life again. He looked Clint up and down and stated simply, “Go change your clothes. You're a wet mess.”

Clint looked down at himself. So he was. He had gone out in only a hoodie he had found on the coat hooks, and due to the tussle in the snow, it was completely soaked.

Clint shivered. “Yeah. Okay.”

Head hanging, Clint turned on his heel and made his way back up to his loft. Hearing Bucky move behind him, Clint grumpily mumbled, “I don’t need a babysitter, Barnes.”

On his way up the stairs, he slipped on a puddle of water left behind during his previous journey to his room. He would have slammed face first into the stairs had a strong hand not grabbed him by the upper arm. Clint shot a begrudgingly grateful look at his savior, only to receive a shake of the head and a small frown from Bucky in return.

Bucky let go once Clint had his feet properly underneath himself once more. As Bucky moved away, Clint could hear him muttering to himself, but couldn’t make out the words.

Once back in his room, Clint contemplated a long, hot shower, or simply changing into some warm sweats. A violent shiver down his spine made the decision easy, and Clint quickly stripped down and ran to his bathroom.

As the water warmed up, Clint took stock of whatever damages he had accidentally inflicted upon himself this time; his fingertips were fine, thanks to his finger guards, but his knuckles and the rest of his hands were rubbed raw from the friction of the various pads and straps; his arms and back ached from the amount of force required to pull the bowstring back; fortunately, or unfortunately, both sides of his body ached in equal measure, as he had swapped from right hand to left hand the whole time he was out.

Clint sighed and stepped into the shower, body instantly relaxing under the hot water sliding down his worn muscles. He simply stood under the water, not bothering with a proper wash down.

An indeterminate time later, Clint was contemplating getting out of the shower when his body lurched with the sudden force of an explosive sneeze.

Shaking his head in an attempt to reorient himself, Clint shut his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Stupid steam making his nose run.

Clint made to get out of the shower, but just as he went to draw his leg over the rim of the tub, he sneezed again. This time, he had to pinwheel his arms to keep his balance as he brought his foot back to the floor safely. He simply stood there on the rug, dripping water all over the place, and tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling.

“Aww, cold, no…” he muttered.

* * *

 

Dressed in his softest, most worn pair of sweat bottoms, his favorite purple hoodie, and his grey beanie, Clint made his way down to the family room. He could already feel the pressure building up in his head and knew he’d have a killer sore throat come morning. He went to groan at the thought of his own stupidity, but ended up sneezing himself down the last few steps instead.

“Uuughhh,” he said eloquently when the sneeze fest ended. When he looked up after wiping his nose on his sleeve, he was startled to find Bucky only a few paces away, eyes wide. Again, Clint would say that Bucky looked worried, which was a repeat of the thought he hadn’t been able to shake all day. He couldn’t quite wrap his head around the idea of the Winter Soldier being concerned, let alone worried, over some no one like himself.

“Barton? You ok?”

Huh. He _was_ worried. Interesting.

“Yeah. Just the sniffles or something. Stayed outside too long. No biggy.”

Instead of looking reassured at his words, Bucky started to look slightly panicked.

“Bucky, are _you_ ok?”

Not even flinching at the use of his old nickname, Bucky moved forward to herd Clint over to the couch. Once Clint was seated, Bucky shoved Clint’s feet up on the cushions so that he was semi-reclined against the arm of the couch. While Clint just sat there -- he seemed to have that non-reaction to a lot of what Bucky had been doing -- Bucky grabbed two blankets and began tucking them in around Clint’s form.

“Barnes….?”

Bucky paused in his ministrations, biting his lower lip while lowering his eyes.

“Barnes, what’s up?”

“I….you’re sick. Just. Just let me take care of you.” He tugged lightly on a strand of his long hair. “Steve...when Steve got sick, it got bad. Even something minor would have him down for weeks.” He paused again and glanced down at Clint. Clint met his eyes with understanding.

“You’re acting on instinct, aren’t you?”

“Hmm. Yeah, I guess I am.”

Clint shrugged. “Ok. I’m not complaining.” Clint burrowed down into his cocoon of blankets. He smirked up at Bucky. “Make me a hot chocolate?”

Bucky glared mock-menacingly at Clint. “You’re going to take advantage of my needing to care for you, aren’t you?”

Clint’s smirk turned into a full-on grin. “Oh yeah.”

Bucky rolled his eyes and made his way over to the kitchen to start making the hot cocoa.

Clint settled in and contemplated Bucky’s reaction. It was hard to imagine Steve with a hangnail, let alone pneumonia or the flu. How sickly must Steve have been that Bucky flinched at a sneeze? How often had Steve been seriously ill for the instinct to have embedded itself deep enough that even Bucky’s brainwashing hadn’t eradicated it?

Clint was lost enough in his musings that he was slightly startled when a cup of hot chocolate appeared under his nose. He looked up at Bucky and smiled softly.

“Thanks.”

Bucky just nodded and brought his own cup up to his mouth for a sip; it must have been from the heat of the drink, but Clint could've sworn he saw a light flush creep up on Bucky’s cheeks.

Bucky sat down on the other end of the couch and curled up with his feet tucked under Clint’s blanket wrapped ones. The two sat in comfortable silence for a minute, Clint’s brain racing to understand the casual touch that Bucky had initiated.

“Uh, wanna watch a movie?” Clint suggested, a bit desperate to stop his spiraling thoughts, despite the atmosphere for a minute.

Bucky turned to fully face Clint on the couch. “Sure. Anything you had in mind?”

“Nah. Pick whatever you want; they’re all good.”

Bucky nodded and stood up. As he made his way passed Clint to the DVD stand he paused and looked at Clint consideringly.

Unexpectedly, Clint felt Bucky’s hand against his forehead. Clint held still, a bit mesmerized by the feel of various callouses as they rubbed against his skin. He went a bit cross eyed trying to look up at Bucky’s hand -- when had he removed his bandages? -- and ended up sneezing again, dislodging Bucky’s palm.

“You look flushed. You’re not feeling feverish are you?”

“Nope,” Clint said distractedly, popping the p at the end of the word; Bucky had moved on to feel his neck to check his pulse.

Bucky hummed noncommittally and continued on his way to select a movie.

Clint let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding, then tensed up again when Bucky sat back down on the couch, this time much closer than before.

“What movie did you pick?”

“No clue. Just grabbed one,” Bucky responded, shuffling the blankets around. Clint shivered when Bucky’s hand grazed his bare ankle. Bucky frowned at Clint.

“Cold?”

“No?” Was that a question? Why did he say that questioningly? Clint earned a set of furrowed eyebrows from Bucky to go along with the frown.

“Move. Your pillows suck.”

“Wha-” before Clint could even figure out where that statement had come from, Bucky was already up and gently shoving Clint away from the side of the couch. As soon as Clint was sitting upright, Bucky slide in behind him.

Clint sat stiffly until Bucky coaxed him back by his shoulders. Clint found himself settled against Bucky’s side, the man’s metal arm draped casually over Clint’s shoulders, the blanket slung over the two of them. Clint fiddled with his fingers for a moment, staring at them rather than the TV screen.

After a while, Clint couldn’t take the silence anymore.

“Hey?” Clint asked his companion quietly.

“Hmm?” Bucky glanced down at the nervous archer, one eyebrow raised in question.

“What do you want me to call you? Barnes seems...impersonal, and I’d like to think that we are at least friends? And, well, I’ve noticed how you don’t seem to like your old nickname, so I was wondering if there was something else you’d rather I call you?” All of this was said in one, gusting breath.

Bucky pondered this for a moment, long enough for Clint to get fidgety again. Quickly, Bucky moved to cover Clint’s hands with the one not wrapped around the archer’s shoulders.

“Hey. James is fine.”

Clint looked up at Bucky. “James, huh?” Clint smirked. “Not Jim? Jimmy?”

“God, no!” Bucky grinned and shoved at Clint lightly. “Not even my mother called me that!”

Clint chuckled. “Fine. James it is.”

The two turned back to the movie, this time paying attention to what was playing on the screen before them. Bucky had inexplicably chosen a chick flick type movie about a dude who bought a zoo. Clint would claim he had bought the movie because he found it amusing that the leading woman looked a lot like Natasha, but the truth was he just had a fondness for simple, sweet films.

After the film was over, Bucky patted Clint on the shoulder and shifted out from behind him to get off the couch.

“Soup for dinner alright?”

Clint scoffed. “If you can find the ingredients, sure.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “You forget I grew up during the Depression. I’m sure I can find something to make soup with. Or, if not, I can just use your shoe.”

Clint grinned ruefully as Bucky sauntered into the kitchen to being foraging for soup ingredients. He sat for a moment, just listening to Bucky, but he soon felt twitchy.

Needing something to occupy his hands, Clint leaned over and reached for a stack of papers that were piled up under the coffee table.

The stack was nearly three inches thick, the bottom papers worn and wrinkled from a long time of being handled. They were letters. Letters that Clint had been handwriting for the last three years to every person affected by the Attack on New York. Friends, family, spouses, kids, lovers--everyone Clint could find that had a loved one die because he was too weak to stand up to a mind controlling alien god, too slow to see the scepter coming.

Clint thumbed the top letter, the last one he had written. It was addressed to an eleven year old who lost both an older brother and her father in the chaos of the battle. Both had held positions at SHIELD; one died when the Chitauri had first boarded the helicarrier and the other by Clint’s hand personally when he had been after Natasha.

Clint stared down at the letter he held in his hand. Thanks to him, this little girl had lost both her brother and her father in the same day. Her life would never be the same, her childhood lost in the pain of losing loved ones forever. How had he let it happen? Why didn’t he fight harder?

How could he sit here, taking in the kindness and support Bucky was offering, when he didn’t even have the willpower to actually send the damn letters?

He didn’t deserve care and love. He didn’t deserve to be looked after, to be looked up to. He had no right to want it, either.

He was especially not allowed to contemplate the idea that he might be what Bucky needs to heal. He couldn’t even heal himself, for godsake. He had no right to think he might be able to help Bucky, too.

He was so unworthy of Bucky’s attention and care, and he certainly couldn’t offer Bucky anything in return. He had nothing to give. Nothing anyone had ever wanted, at least.

Clint sighed and set the letter back on top of the stack. He was going to pull out a new sheet of paper and the list of people he needed to write to when Bucky came back carrying two bowls of soup. Clint shuffled the stack of paper off his lap and onto the table, taking the hot bowl from Bucky.

“What did you manage to find? Something other than my boots, I hope?”

Bucky chuckled and sat back down in his earlier spot. “Yeah. Found a can of chicken noodle soup in the very back of one cupboard and added the pack of ramen noodles that was on the counter.”

Clint eyed his bowl. “I don’t even remember buying canned soup.”

Bucky smiled and the two ate contentedly. Once finished, Bucky suggested another movie, which Clint agreed to, slowly forgetting his previous dark thoughts.

* * *

 

Later that night, after what ended up being two more movies, Clint yawned widely. He still felt like crap, and with the workout he had sustained earlier, he was exhausted.

Regretfully, Clint stood from the couch. He arched his back and stretched as he said, “Well, I’m pooped. Time to get to bed.”

As he moved toward the staircase, he heard Bucky get off the couch, but no further movement. Clint glanced back and was a bit surprised to see Bucky simply standing by the edge of the coffee table, looking more uncertain now than he had since they had arrived at the farmhouse.

“James?”

Bucky tugged on the hem of his overlarge sweatshirt and bit his lip. Seeming to come to a decision, he looked up and met Clint’s eyes. “May I come upstairs again tonight?”

Clint swallowed, wondering what he had gotten himself into. Sharing his bed with the former Winter Soldier? What was he thinking? He couldn’t really say no, though. Not with Bucky staring at him with those blue-grey eyes filled with pleading uncertainty.

“Yeah,” Clint nodded, “of course.”

 _Of course? Really Barton? Are you_ trying _to lead him on? What happened to not being worth it?_

Bucky’s look of relief was worth the statement, however, and Clint continued up the stairs with a warm feeling brewing in his chest. Bucky followed closely after.

When they got up to his room, the two quickly undressed; it was cold, and neither wanted to linger for long in the chilly air. Clint tried to ignore the other man and focus on getting his sore muscles to cooperate enough that he could get his hoodie off. He failed spectacularly.

It was kind of hard _not_ to stare at Bucky as he changed his own shirt; it wasn’t the first time Clint had seen the metal arm and its connected explosion of scar tissue, but it _was_ the first time he had seen Bucky completely shirtless.

He must have made a whining sound in the back of his throat at the sight of Bucky’s rippling back muscles, because Bucky turned his head and shot him an odd look. Clint ducked his head and hoped the loft’s awful lighting hid his growing blush.

Finally in a new shirt and still in his favorite sweats, Clint padded his way to his bed and ducked under the covers. Bucky followed suit on the other side of the bed, but instead of staying there like he did the night before, he immediately did his best impression of an octopus, snuggling in close and wrapping his limbs around Clint.

Which is how he found out that his bedmate slept in just a T-shirt and boxers. Clint’s legs ended up tangled up with Bucky’s, the heat of his well muscled thighs felt easily through the single layer of fabric between them. Bucky slung his metal arm, slightly warm thanks to the inner mechanics, over Clint’s waist and drew them chest to chest. Tucking his nose to Clint’s collarbone, Bucky let out a small sigh.

Clint blinked for a moment and came to the realization that Bucky was _smaller_ than he was. Not in overall bulk, sure, but he was stockier, shorter. He fit perfectly under Clint’s chin in this position.

Hating to disrupt the comfortable position, Clint cleared his throat. “I need to take out my hearing aids.”

Bucky had stiffened at first, but relaxed again at Clint’s words. He pulled back from their cuddle, hand held out with his palm up. Clint quietly took out his hearing aids and, after turning them off, dropped them into Bucky’s awaiting hand. Bucky then stretched over Clint and dropped the aids on the nightstand.

Clint would normally be tense and uncomfortable with someone nearby while he was unable to hear anything. But as Bucky settled them back down into their earlier position, Clint just felt warm and safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ONE PART LEFT. I don't think it will be quite as long as this one (god i hope not) but it will have lots of FEELS for both our boys.
> 
> Stocky Bucky and Lanky Clint are mine and Phouka's favorite variation of this pair. Clint will forever be slightly taller than Bucky in my mind now....
> 
> If you can name the movie referenced in this chapter, i'll give you cookie!
> 
> Comments make my day! Thanks for reading!<3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feelings and burnt waffles

Clint slowly opened his eyes, wincing at the white light streaming in from his window; it must have snowed again after they went to bed. Rolling over, Clint realized the bed next to him was empty--the sheets were cool to the touch, pulled up and smoothed over. He frowned slightly, wondering where Bucky had wandered off to.

Flipping over to his other side with the intention of grabbing his hearing aids, Clint caught sight of a little piece of paper folded over and propped up against one of his aids. He reached for it and his aids. As he put the aids back in his ears, he flipped the little card open and read it’s contents.

_ Downstairs. Waffles? _

_ ~J _

Clint couldn’t control the smile that stretched across his face. The note was  _ sweet. _ No one had left him a note like this before.

Getting out of bed, Clint grabbed his hoodie and headed downstairs.

Bucky wasn’t in the kitchen, but a quick look around found him in the front room on the couch. The good mood evaporated when he saw what Bucky was doing.

Sitting on the edge of the couch, hair falling over his face, Bucky had Clint’s letters spread out on the coffee table, a few held in his hand as he read them over. Clint swallowed harshly, uncertainty making his throat thick. He wasn’t sure how he felt about Bucky reading his letters like this, but then, what could he say? It was his own fault for not putting them away like he should if he meant to keep them secret.

Sighing, Clint made his way to sit down on the couch next to Bucky. Too engrossed in the letters, Bucky didn’t register Clint’s presence until he flopped down onto the couch heavily. Startled, Bucky looked up sharply from the letter he had been reading. His eyes filled with some emotion that Clint could almost classify as guilt.

“Sorry, I just...I saw the stack of papers and I thought it was a story you were writing or something. And then when I realized what they were, I..kinda couldn’t stop reading them.” Bucky looked down at the paper in his hands before setting it on the table, bring his hands back to clasp in his lap.

Clint smiled ruefully. “Hey, it’s fine. Sorta. But I shouldn’t have left them sitting around, either. Especially considering your past.” Clint sighed again and picked a couple of the letters up to thumb through.  

Clint pondered where to begin his explanation. Bucky hadn’t asked for one, but he felt compelled to give one anyway. It wasn’t that complicated, but it  _ was  _ personal. Clint tapped the letters against his chin in contemplation.

“Ok, so, you know about New York, right?” He glanced at Bucky and caught his affirmative nod. “Well, has anyone ever told you the part I played in that battle?”

Bucky shuffled a little closer to Clint on the couch. “No…?”

Clint went back to staring at his letters. “Well, short story goes that I was...brainwashed by an alien god to do his bidding and I helped him in the siege of the helicarrier and getting the portal open so his alien minions could take over New York.” Clint took a deep breath. “I was...directly responsible for the deaths of 63 members of SHIELD. I… I never found out how many civilians lost their lies in the battle.”

Clint paused for a moment, eyes closed. He breathed deeply, in and out, in and out. While it had happened over three years ago, and he  _ was _ getting better, there were times when the guilt and shame and fear crept back up and became overwhelming. It was one of the main reasons he tried his best to never talk about the incident.

“I started the first letter to my handler’s girlfriend. I found it...incredibly cathartic. So I wrote another to the wife of some other coworker, and another to a son. It...snowballed from there. It helped. It helped me process and acknowledge my feelings and allowed me to move on. I haven’t sent them because...at first it was too hard. The letters too personal. Now, it’s not only too late, but the letters have come to represent an incredibly rough time in my life and sending them out would feel a bit like throwing them away and losing the progress that I’ve made. Does any of that...make sense?”

Clint cracked one eye open and turned his head to look at Bucky’s reaction. He nearly jerked backward when he realized how close Bucky had moved during his rambling explanation. There was little space between them now, just a hair’s breadth from his thigh to Bucky’s. Bucky had shifted so he rested his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees. Their faces were less than a foot apart.

Bucky’s eyes were full of understanding and compassion and the look on his face made Clint swallow hard and want to shrink back. His vision seemed to go a little fuzzy and dark around the edges and his hands were shaking. Time stopped as he lost focus of what was going on around him.

“Clint. Clint, breath for me, Love, com'on.”

Clint hadn’t realized he had started to hyperventilate until Bucky’s voice brought him back. Clint focused on the sound of Bucky’s voice, trying to slow his breaths to match the cadence of words that he could hear but not understand. When his eyes cleared, Bucky was even closer, one hand brought up to rest against Clint’s jaw, the other on his knee. Their eyes were inches apart; the concern in Bucky’s was intense enough to cause Clint’s already shaken breaths to stutter in his chest.

“I…” Clint pulled back from Bucky’s touch. He felt like he was on an emotional rollercoaster; first talking about New York and now confused and uncertain as to what Bucky wanted from him, why he kept sitting so close and touching him, his  _ concern. _ He didn’t deserve it. There was no way he could give Bucky what he wanted and he couldn’t keep taking advantage of the touches that Bucky kept offering him. It was cruel.

“James, what do you want from me,” he blurted out, unable to keep things in anymore.

Bucky cocked his head to the side, his hands back to resting in his lap. He raised one eyebrow and said seriously, “You.”

Clint stared for a minute, then broke down into nervous, hysterical giggles. He put his face in his hands and continued laughing, though by this point his laughter had turned into near sobs.

“Clint?” 

Clint knew Bucky was going to reach out to him to offer comfort and he wasn’t sure he could handle the contact right now. He’d lose what little control he still had if Bucky so much as touched him on the knee again.

“Don’t...please don’t touch me right now,” he gasped into his hands as he shifted down the couch to put some distance between them. He didn’t look up in fear of seeing the look on Bucky’s face.

“Alright. I won’t touch you. But...you’re kinda scaring me right now, Clint. What’s wrong?”

Clint brought his feet up onto the couch and curled up into a ball, arms wrapped around his knees. He rested his head on his knees and turned to face Bucky, though he still didn’t look at him directly.

“James, I can’t...I can’t give you what you want. What you need.” God, how had this morning spun so far out of control? “You’d be better off finding someone else.”

“Clint, what are you talking about?”

“Sex! I’m talking about sex! I can’t give you that, I’ll never be able to give you that, and it’s better if we just don’t start anything now and avoid all future heartbreak. I can’t do it again. I can’t be left again because I don’t want to have sex. I can’t.” The last words were whispered as Clint buried his head in his knees. He had lost too many people he cared for, that he  _ loved, _ to be able to go through it again. He already liked Bucky more than he should; he couldn’t imagine how it would feel to love him and then lose him. He felt he would break apart entirely if that happened. 

“Aww, Clint.” Clint flinched at Bucky’s sigh, then stiffened when he felt Bucky’s hand on his jaw again. “Clint, look at me. Please?” Clint slowly turned his head, giving in to the slight pressure Bucky was applying to his jaw. When he opened his eyes, it was to see Bucky’s face soft and considering, his eyes bright. “Clint, I want you. However you want me to have you, and however you want me. Sex or no.” He paused, eyebrows furrowing just slightly. “I’m honestly not even sure I’m up for sex, anyway.”

Clint just stared, unable to believe what he was hearing. 

Bucky must have sensed Clint’s confusion, because he rubbed his thumb gently along Clint’s jaw. “I’m serious, Clint. The last few days have been...a relief. Relaxing. No one has been able to help me like you have. They try, but...they’re too hesitant... too fearful of messing up, I guess. Whatever it is,  I can tell,and it doesn’t help at all. The touching and cuddling,  _ that _ helps. I’d like more of that, and whatever else you’re able to offer. 

Bucky paused for a moment. His eyes roamed Clint’s face while one finger tip gently traced over the shell of Clint’s ear.“No one has given me  _ touch _ like that.”

Clint kept staring. He felt like he might cry. His eyes burned and he felt as though his chin would start trembling if Bucky kept talking.

“Clint...who left you?”

“Everyone.” Clint surprised himself with his answer, but once he opened his mouth, he couldn’t seem to stop talking. He found that to  be a running theme of his current relationship with Bucky. “Everyone’s left me. First, my family, but that was forever ago and they don’t matter anymore. But then Jessica, Bobbi, Laura...Bobbi and I were married, but she couldn't deal with me anymore, so she left. Then I dated Jessica, but when I stopped being able to pretend that sex was something I wanted, she left, too. My relationship with Laura was probably the best. We were going to get married...the sex thing wasn’t that much of an issue with her but then there was a car accident…” Clint closed his eyes tightly. “Natasha’s the only one that’s really stayed. And I think that’s because we never even dated. She’s the closest thing I’ve had to a real family.”

This time, Bucky placed his other hand, his metal one, on Clint’s jaw, so that both hands were framing Clint’s face. Slowly, he brought his forehead to rest against Clint’s. His breath was even, and Clint felt it gust against his lips.

“Why me?” Clint whispered.

Bucky chuckled and shifted so that his nose rubbed against Clint’s cheekbone. “I could ask you the same thing, couldn’t I?” His right hand moved to caress the back of Clint’s head. “You don’t tip toe around me. You seem to just... _ get _ me. To understand what I need and when I need it. You’re funny. You’re kind. You’re incredibly good looking.” 

Clint snorted at this. 

“You are!”

“Not as good looking as you, though.”

“So? I don’t want to date me. I want to date  _ you.”  _

Clint pulled back just a little so that he could see Bucky’s face. “You really want to? Date me?”

“If you’ll have me.”

“Yes,” Clint breathed. 

Bucky’s grin rivaled the snow-bright light of the sun outside. He dipped forward quick and gave Clint’s forehead a light kiss. “Good. Now, I think I there was the promise of waffles?”

* * *

 

Clint sat at his dining table, his chin resting on his crossed arms. He watched as Bucky, still dressed in boxers and a t-shirt, moved around his kitchen making them breakfast. Every so often, Bucky would turn and look at Clint, a smile on his face and a light in his eyes. It was such a stark contrast to the angry and frustrated version of the man from just a few days ago that it made it seem as though so much more than a few days had passed.

Clint was still wrapping his brain around the idea of having something like this with Bucky  _ every day _ . Could he really wake up to find Bucky making them breakfast or that they could sit curled up together on the couch and watch ridiculous movies after a rough day on the job? Clint had a feeling it would take a while for the reality of the situation to fully sink in . 

But he was okay with that.

Getting up, Clint made his way over to where Bucky was finally removing a waffle from the waffle iron. He had been poking the edges of the waffle every few seconds to make sure they were perfectly golden brown, and they were now apparently deemed to be the correct hue. 

Clint stood behind him and wrapped his arms around the shorter man’s waist, tucking his head into the curve of Bucky’s neck and shoulder and watching him work. He loved that Bucky was slightly shorter than he was, that they fit so well together.

Bucky hummed and Clint could feel the vibrations in his arms where they were wrapped snuggly around Bucky’s middle.

“What’s the hug for?”

“Just...something I felt like doing. Especially after I realized it was something that I  _ could  _ do.”

Bucky turned in Clint’s arms and wrapped his own around Clint’s shoulders.

“You can  _ definitely  _ give me hugs whenever you want.”

Clint smiled and moved one hand to tuck some stray strands of hair behind Bucky’s ear. “Good. That’s good.” He bit his lip, and as he did so, watched as Bucky’s eyes quickly dropped down to his lips and back up. Clint smirked, then lightly passed his tongue along his own bottom lip.

Bucky was once again distracted, though this time a small crease formed between his brows. He shot Clint a small pout. “You’re teasing me!”

“Guilty,” Clint grinned, then ducked down and pressed a light, careful kiss to Bucky’s lips. Bucky’s pout quickly turned into a smile as he pressed back into Clint with enthusiasm. 

When the broke apart, Bucky smiled softly and said, “You can do that whenever you want, too.”

Clint smiled. Before he could say anything, however, his nose caught wiff of something that set alarms off in his brain. He leaned around Bucky and smirked.

“Your waffles are burning, waffle-man.”

“Shit!” Bucky quickly turned around and began to pry the scorched waffle of the iron with a fork, cursing the entire time. Clint just chuckled and made his way back over to the table, happy once again watch as Bucky scrambled around to make more, hopefully unburnt, waffles.

* * *

 

Later, after a successful, though scant, breakfast (they really needed to go shopping soon), Clint and Bucky were back on the couch looking through the letters.

Clint was glancing at each of them and carefully stacking them back  up according to the date they were written. Bucky sat quietly next to him, holding the letters as Clint stacked them up.

“I think I want to start writing letters, too,” Bucky said quietly.

Clint looked up. “Wait? What?”

“I want to write my own letters.”

Clint blinked. “Why?”

Bucky shrugged. “It seems like a good idea. And I have a lot of people to apologize to and a lot of emotions to work through.”

“You don’t have to do it this way, though. You don’t even have to do it at all!”

“I know.” Bucky leaned over and rested his head on Clint’s shoulder. “I know. It just seems like the right thing to do.” He shifted his head and gave Clint’s cheek a small kiss. “Besides, we can write our letters together. Maybe.... we can help each other heal.”

Clint nodded slowly. “That...sounds like a great idea.”

He set his letters back down on the table and grabbed the rest of them from Bucky, setting them down as well. Curling up against the arm of the couch, he pulled at Bucky’s shoulders until the other man was resting against him. They curled up together contentedly, simply breathing and taking in each other’s presence.

Clint had no idea if this thing growing between them would work out. He hoped it would, but it wasn’t like this life was an easy one. He already felt better having someone at his side who was willing to help him and be there, but who didn’t expect anything more from him than he could give.

He hoped, that given enough time, he could help not just Bucky, but maybe… just maybe, himself as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! This was such a joy to write and I hope to write more of these idiots in the very near future.
> 
> Find me over on tumblr at attagirlblue to send me prompts or just cry over fandoms with me!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments make writing so much more enjoyable ~<3


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